We live in a dream, don’t we? Yours may not be mine, even if mine looks like what you are inventing for yourself.
Your conscience, your amusement, your desires to live and your nightmares are intertwined to create your memories, your story, the one with an introduction, long or short chapters before the conclusion reduces you to the silence that poets and philosophers have been crying for all time.
It is possible that you will live your dream in parallel with a more ordinary life, even foreign to this breath which, in principle, should make you creative and inspiring. How many of you can say that the project they are taking is the one that leads them to happiness?
Is your dream part of this quest for happiness? Are you working, bold and courageous, to build your death? What will you have experienced, what will you have accomplished, what will you have loved?
But is it necessary to measure your life like this? Who is the one who will move the beads on the abacus for you, will make the final judgment? Aren’t you in a dream in which you sail unconsciously? The universe is so vast and so out of reach that it doesn’t care about your expectations. He dictates for you the next steps, probably giving you all the freedom to be brilliantly who you are because, like me with you, we are insignificant, magical, modestly glorious.
What do you dream that I don’t dream of myself?
You, the frantic and the fanatical, why would you want to destroy other people’s dreams? How dare you claim to hear this voice superior to your understanding? Your ears are no different from mine. Shouldn’t you feed the silence, get away from the sun’s passage, let it burn slowly, stay in the shadows until the stars overflow?
We would be so happy to respect our dreams. That’s the word: respect. You are alive, I am, we will no longer be, others will be. Respect then for what we have. Respect for this imaginary that animates and restores us to the image of the divine.
I shudder at the thought of losing my dreams, you know. I would like each of my days to be what they invent.
It’s difficult, isn’t it? The quest for happiness remains an effort. Cultivating the earth requires arms, running after love requires legs, keeping the flame requires I don’t know what light.
Life is hard, for us, it also lasts, well beyond our dreams, rooted in a blue ball that dazzles in the universal kaleidoscope.
How mysterious this world is.
Am I in a dream?